


Tearing You Up

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Going a Little Mad [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, Bondage, Breathplay, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Humiliation, Jealousy, Knife Kink, Mind the Tags, Obsessive Behavior, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Sex, Sadism, Shower Sex, Stalking, Unsafe Sex, Violence, improper use of christmas lights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22569463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: It's been over a month and soon, you make yourself forget that insane weekend ever happened. He's said nothing,leftnothing - what's a girl supposed to think? When you get asked out on a date by a coworker, you let yourself fall back into a life of normalcy.Buthedoesn't like that, and he's happy to show you why.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Reader, Joker/You
Series: Going a Little Mad [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595734
Comments: 43
Kudos: 239
Collections: R's Smut





	1. Complication

**Author's Note:**

> Let me tell you about a little situation  
> It's been testing my patience  
> Man, she was keeping me up all night  
> 'Cause you only get so far reading faces  
> We were off to the races  
> And I thought to myself "hold tight"  
> You see there was just one complication  
> She was already taken  
> And what was so wrong felt so right  
> She said "no need for looking over your shoulder  
> When you could just come over  
> And we can work this out just fine"
> 
> I don't know what you want from me  
> So careless in my company  
> Oh, if all that you say is true  
> There'll be no getting over you  
> So beat down playing by your rules  
> If you're a joker then I'm a fool  
> I guess there's no catching up to you  
> If you don't want my affection  
> Don't lie, you're tearing me up
> 
> 'Cause you've got, all my attention  
> I won't lie, you're tearing me up  
> I'm trying to tell your intention  
> When you lie, you're tearing me up  
> If you don't want my affection  
> You won't mind, you're tearing me up
> 
> "Tearing Me Up" - Bob Moses
> 
> OK, buckaroos, prepare yourself for a depraved ride and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MIND THE TAGS! Otherwise, please enjoy 💖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's for all my beautiful friends - I couldn't do any of this without you! 💖

You meant it when you said there is no way in hell you'll ever go to another party, not after Halloween. And yet here you are, cocktail in hand, wearing an uncomfortable dress that’s just a bit too tight and heels that pinch and makeup that you wanted to take off two hours ago. 

_I should really learn to say "no,"_ you think to yourself, taking a long drink of your blue-Hawaiian-something, holding the little tiki umbrella away so it doesn't tickle your nose. 

At least this party is different from the other one—there are multiple exits, no one's wearing masks, your boss didn't hire any clowns, and the building's security team is here to deal with anyone who might try to derail what will otherwise be a boring company party. You’re probably drinking too much—you’ve had three since arriving forty-five minutes ago—but you need some way to cope with the discomfort you’re feeling. Whether it’s from the last time you were out with so many people or the Joker’s parting words after that sordid extended weekend over a month ago, you’re not entirely sure. 

_Don’t think about it in public, Christ._

Not that it kept you from thinking about it at night, when the winter nights were cold and memory took away the unpleasant edges in an otherwise pleasurable— 

_No, no—don’t go there._

You take another long swig of your cocktail. 

He didn’t leave anything behind after the last time. No notes, no ‘lost’ items—just a wet kiss on your cheek and a light squeeze of your breast before he absconded out the window in the middle of the night (and he left the window open—in December!). You thought to yourself that he’d come back, just show up one day cozied up in your living room, making himself at home like he owned the place, half-eaten meals and ripped open packages all over the place as he helped himself. The thought terrified you, the constant uncertainty and apprehension, but now… 

_Nope, don’t go there._

You finally admitted to yourself a couple weeks ago that you missed him. Well, maybe not _him,_ but the way he made you feel. 

_Christ almighty._

The fact that you started to _hope_ he’d come back almost made you book a therapy appointment right there and then. There was _certainly_ nothing healthy about any of that. But you knew that you couldn’t tell anyone, not without going to prison or getting committed, how the _hell_ do you tell someone you had—and _enjoyed—_ a sex-filled weekend with a mass-murderer? 

_You don’t._

The distraction of the party should’ve been good for you—take your mind off all the craziness racking your brain—but you haven’t spoken with anyone besides some cordial greetings and light conversation about last week’s miseries. Things just seem… _boring_ now. Uneventful. Lacking the same colour it used to hold for you. And you’re unsure of what the exact cause was, when things just started to drain out of the world. 

“Why did you bother?” you mutter to yourself, speaking into your glass and shuffling the little umbrella around. Downing the rest of it, you say goodbye to the few coworkers you actually like talking to before grabbing your coat and heading for the elevator. 

Berating yourself, you stop paying attention as the metal doors close. That is, until you hear someone calling out. 

“Hold the door!” 

You prop it open on instinct, looking for the source of the voice. A harried-looking young man, out of breath but smiling, rushes to the door, coat in hand. When he slows and stands in front of you, he flashes you the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. It crinkles the corners of his eyes, brings out a dimple on his right cheek, and it’s entirely genuine. Your face gets warm in a pleasant way, different than it has been since Halloween. 

“Which floor?” you ask, head feeling light. 

_God, why do I have a thing for tall men with broad shoulders?_

He grins, raising an eyebrow as he chuckles. “Lobby. Only so many places to go, and I’m desperate to get Tom’s speech out of my head.”

You’d like nothing more than to facepalm. Of _course_ he’s leaving—he was at the same freaking party as you—and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from physically cringing while you internally curse yourself. 

“Right, right—sorry,” you say, laughing awkwardly, pulling at your dress. It feels too tight now and your skin’s getting warm. He waves his hands, thinking he upset you. 

“Oh, no—don’t be. That party’s enough to make anyone feel half-asleep.” 

You both start to laugh, launching into a conversation about all the highlights of the evening, speculating on who’s going to be embarrassed on Monday and dreading the next party that your boss decides to throw. It lasts longer than the elevator ride down, and you both stand in the lobby, just off from the door and leaning against the large glass window. 

His name is Joseph, and you have no idea how you didn’t know that he was working on the floor below until now. He’s good-looking and charming; his laugh makes you feel at ease. It’s the complete opposite of how the Joker made you feel. There’s no tension, no underlying fear, just a feeling of comfortability. You talk for what seems like a few minutes but turns out to have been over an hour, and it’s not until you realize that it’s 2:13 am that you decide that going home is your best bet. If _this_ was the night he decided to show up— 

_Nope. Don’t think about that. Don’t even go there. He isn’t coming back, he made that_ very _clear._

Just as you start fuming in frustration at this audacious position he’s placed you in, Joseph clears his throat, looking sheepish. You try to not think about how different he is from _him._

“I—I’d really like to take you out for a drink,” he stammers out, endearingly bashful. You hide your goofy grin behind a hand, not letting your hopes get too high. “If—if you want to, that is. As friends or coworkers—anything. I just… really enjoyed talking with you.” 

The way he’s just _smiling_ makes your stomach flip. It’s been a long time since you’ve gone on a date, and ever since that weekend (that you’re fairly certain bought you a one-way ticket to hell), you’ve been feeling… lonely. You won’t bring yourself to entertain the idea that you somehow miss the _fucking_ Joker—the homicidal clown who’s the nightly topic of the news, and Joseph seems genuine and kind. 

_That’s the kind of person I need to date. Better for my health (and soul) that way._

Finally letting him see your smile, you look down and push the loose strands of your hair back. “That would be… that would be really nice.” 

The elated grin he gives you in return makes you feel like you made the right decision. 

Making plans to meet this upcoming Friday, you pinch yourself to keep from being too giddy. Who knows—he could be crazy or just not your type. But you’ve met crazy, _real_ crazy, and Joseph feels like the complete opposite of that. You both hug as you part ways, him giving your cheek a quick peck, and, after he insists for over two minutes, you relent and let him pay for you to get a cab home. You exchange numbers and promise that you’ll send him a text when you get home safely, and his concern spreads the warmth further down your chest, making your heart beat a little faster. 

As you get in the cab and wave goodbye, a different feeling overshadows what had you so elated before. You’re sure you’re just being paranoid, that the hair standing up on the back of your neck is just the winter chill as you warm up in the back of the cab. The pull at the bottom of your stomach is just the alcohol turning sour. A few glasses of water and a valerian will knock you out in no time. You focus on that and dispel the irrational notion that you’re being watched. 

* * *

The feeling doesn’t go away—that itch that tells you that someone is staring at your back, stalking up behind you and you can’t hear them. It’s at its worst when you’re outside heading to work, the store—hell, it seems to follow you everywhere. Three nights in a row you’ve woken up covered in sweat, jerking awake and panicking—convinced that someone was in your apartment. 

But every time you checked, baseball bat in hand and your new switchblade within reach, there’s always been nothing. No discernable source to pinpoint what’s making you feel this way. The corners of your bedroom hold monsters that still haunt you from Halloween, staring and waiting to drag you into the depths with them. 

You start to sleep with your bedside lamp on, baseball bat next to you and knife gripped in your hand under your pillow. Your sleep suffers, getting to the point where you can barely stay awake at work or the train ride home. Work on Friday drags on for what feels like ages until you _do_ fall asleep at your desk during your lunch break. It's getting to the point where you think you might be too tired to even meet Joseph for drinks like you planned. You start thinking about calling your parents to see if you can spend the weekend with them, get out of Gotham for a little while and reset for next week. You stop the thought as soon as it forms, shaking your head.

_No, my paranoia's not going to ruin this for me._

When you get home, that same feeling seems to get worse, not going away until you open every closet and check under your bed, just to give yourself some peace of mind. 

"Get a grip," you mutter to yourself, rubbing your eyes and forcing yourself to ignore the bad feeling in your stomach. Sleeping with the Joker (repeatedly) was probably _some_ type of illegal, and you're still not planning on telling anyone, but it's not going to happen again. 

_Ever._

You drive it out of your mind—all the feelings and sensations that always come up whenever you think about him (something you're less able to do when you're alone in bed)—and focus on getting ready for your date with Joseph. You slip on a black, swoop neck dress that's fitted until it hits your waist. It's one of your favourites—covering just enough so you don't feel cold but showing off your figure in a way that makes you feel more confident. Remembering his cute smile as you apply your eyeliner, your heart starts to race, anxiety and anticipation making your stomach flutter. The worry is still there, that feeling you're not sure how to name, but you ignore it. 

_It’s nothing, really. You’re just looking for a reason to sabotage something good in your life. Again._

Blowing out a long breath, you finish doing your hair, lock your apartment, and catch an Uber to the restaurant—you don’t want to take any chances of being late. You get there early, grabbing a table and fidgeting as you wait, eager and nervous. 

Ten minutes pass and Joseph hasn’t shown up yet.

 _He’s probably running a little late,_ you reason with yourself. That’s understandable. Maybe there was traffic, or he missed his train. You can be patient, sip at your glass of red wine and avoid looking at your phone. 

But then thirty minutes pass. 

Now it borders on rude for you. After double-checking to make sure you’re at the right place, you see that he hasn’t sent a message, let you know what’s delayed him. A sinking sensation has you feeling ill, like your stomach’s in your throat. 

You’ve been stood-up. 

"I'm such an idiot," you say under your breath, dropping a ten on the table and grabbing your bag and jacket before leaving. You’re too angry to feel upset yet, your mind turning over what you might have said wrong, what signs he would’ve given that he wasn’t interested. There’s a large bottle of wine in your fridge and a tub of Oreo ice cream in your freezer that has your name on it. Eating your feelings out seems like the best option—cutting your losses and admitting to yourself that you attract nut jobs and flakey— 

"Hey, hey, wait!" 

You recognize the voice—it’s the same one from the elevator. Mouth dropping open when you turn around, your anger disappears for a moment. "Joseph?" 

It’s the same man, but he’s not smiling as easily. He looks dishevelled, slightly unnerved—like he’s just done a pass through the wringer. 

"I am so— _so_ sorry," he huffs, completely out of breath when he stops in front of you, clutching his side. "I meant to call and tell you I'd be late, but today has _not_ been my day." 

"What happened?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. Your voice is still hard, but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

"I was about to drive over, but I noticed that a lot of oil was leaking out. Well, it turns out it was something else—I managed to tear a fluid line or something and I had to call AAA." 

Standing off to the side to let the other pedestrians pass by, you narrow your eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Instead, he seems worried, his eyes pleading for you to understand that he didn’t do this on purpose. 

_Not everyone is like_ him. _Joseph doesn’t seem like the type to lie through his teeth, and it doesn’t look like he’s figured out that he shouldn’t have asked me out to begin with…_

"That's terrible, how did it happen?" You’re relieved, happy that he didn’t sense that you were nuts after all, that there was a reason outside of yourself for the delay. Your sense of bashful nervousness returns, warming your skin. 

"No clue," he says, smiling when he sees that you’re not upset. He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "I still left early, so I just called an Uber, but as I was waiting, a car veered off the road onto the sidewalk. Damn thing nearly hit me—but I backed up and jumped out of the way in time. My phone wasn't so lucky." 

Digging his hands in his coat pocket, he pulls out a ruined cell phone. The screen’s cracked, almost completely snapped in half. 

_No wonder he didn’t call._

The bad feeling returns with an intensity that gives you momentary vertigo. You still want to go home, banish the thoughts that just something’s incredibly wrong with a few drinks before getting some much-needed rest.

"Oh—Joseph, I'm so sorry, we should reschedule—" 

"Nonsense. I've been looking forward to this all week," he says, a boyish grin on his face. You want to say no, to insist that you meet another day, but he shakes his head, preemptively dispelling the resistance you haven’t voiced. "I didn't think tonight was my night, but I'm glad I still got to see you." 

Despite how nice his words make you feel, a terrible feeling sinks into you: Those are too many instances to be a coincidence. But… he wouldn't bother, would he? You haven't heard a word from him—how would he know anything? 

_'I better be, ah… the only one you do this for. Hmm? Cause I’ll know. Mmm-hmm, I always do.'_

Your face and hands go cold, blood draining away until you feel lightheaded. Joseph doesn't seem to notice, only looking up and down the street and rubbing his hands together, whether for warmth or from nervousness, you're unsure. 

"How about we skip the restaurant?" he asks, breaking through your thoughts. "It's a nice evening, isn't it? There's a park not too far from here and a good food cart on the way." 

It’s a lovely February evening and you’re all bundled up. Walking around in Gotham is risky business, but it looks quiet, peaceful. Not too many sketchy-looking people out and about for once, no distant sirens alerting you to the abysmal crime rate that always finds a way to plummet, and you let Joseph’s certainty and enthusiasm overshadow your fear. It’s not like you’re alone, right? You’re sure you’ll be fine… What’s the worst that could happen? 

_That in itself feels like a jinx… Jesus._

You nod along, agreeing to Joseph’s plan. It doesn't take much before your worries fall away, getting lost in his company and the quiet and cool evening, your exhaustion forgotten. You’re having a nice conversation as you walk, falafel in hand, laughing at his dad jokes and discussing your interests, enjoying yourself much more than you thought you could after the week you had and the rough start to the evening he described. 

Time loses all meaning as you get deeper in the park, the lights overhead giving everything a soft, downy look, almost like something out of a fairytale. You’re still laughing, your hand somehow in his, when you come to a bridge overlooking a small part of the Gotham River. The light posts radiate warmth as the cold air pinches your cheeks. Everything’s peaceful and quiet, almost like you’re not in Gotham at all. You haven’t spent much time outside of the city, but you can almost convince yourself that you’re somewhere else entirely. 

Joseph leans in, hand on your neck, the soft suede of his gloves making heat pool in your chest. You close your eyes, ready to kiss him—and maybe even go back to his place—when, as soon as he was there, you feel nothing. The touch of his gloves, the proximity of his chest—it’s replaced by a gush of cold wind that makes you freeze as a loud _crack_ of ice shattering and loud _splash_ drop you right back into a nightmare. 

You know opening your eyes will bring nothing good. The shadows will be back, seeping into your skin and bringing you to a place you never wanted to return to, replacing everything you tried to hold on to. 

But you do, almost like your life’s a expressway pile-up that you can’t tear yourself away from, no matter how bad it gets, how much it hurts. 

“Uh, _hi,”_ he says, dragging out the greeting and ending with a loud _pop_ of his lips. 

You know that voice anywhere. It’s the voice of both your most pleasant dreams and your worst nightmares. You convinced yourself that you wouldn’t hear it anywhere apart from the news, that you shook that ghost off. 

But you haven’t. 

He’s leaning against the stone side of the bridge, legs crossed and leaning on his elbows in the perfect image of casualness, but his face is a carving of wrath. He smiles at you, baleful and malicious and leaving you unsteady on your feet. Slowly, the meaning of what he’s done hits you like a bat to the ribs. 

_Joseph._

Rushing to the edge, you see a large hole in what was pristine ice, revealing the dark, black water of the Gotham River. You don’t see him anywhere—he’s probably trapped under there, _drowning—_

 _“Joseph!”_ you scream, scrambling to climb over without thinking. You don’t know what you can do, how you’ll actually help, but you need to try. 

A hand burying itself in your hair and tearing you backward kills any haphazard plan you made, nearly pulling it from the root and snapping your head back. You fall over, half-screaming as you try to ease the pain as you're forced to stare at the Joker’s upside-down expression. He’s smiling, baring his teeth, but it looks like the frown you’ve seen on tragedy masks when you’ve gone to the theatre. 

_“So… this_ is how it’s gonna be, huh?” he says, shaking your head with every syllable and forcing you on your knees. You try to scream again before he forces your head further back until you think your neck might snap. “Gonna ignore me _and_ be a, uh, _cheating_ little minx.” 

He stands in front of you, grip transferring to the hair on the top of your head. Even if he didn’t look like he was about to slit your throat, you wouldn’t have been able to find the words to answer him. 

_Cheating?_

“I—I—”

He snarls, leaning over you until his lips are inches from yours. _“What?_ Hmm? Gonna tell me that this is some kind of… _misunderstanding?”_ he asks in an ingratiating tone, eyebrows drawing up and mouth turning down in an exaggerated frown. “That you’re not a, ah—a _fucking liar?_ A little _slut? Hmm?”_ he demands, growling and eyes alight with a fire that you know will burn you alive. 

Once again, you think of his words from when he was at your apartment. The threat you were so _stupid_ to ignore. 

_‘I better be, ah… the_ only _one you do this for. Hmm? Cause I’ll know. Mmm-hmm, I always do.’_

Panic and fear take away any attempts you were going to make to explain this—that this is _his_ fault, how the fuck are you supposed to know he was coming back, that you’re allowed to do what you want with your life—but you know he doesn’t care about any of that. He never would. 

“I think you need to, ah… _learn_ a few things, doll.” Dragging you up, he starts walking. You scramble to make your legs work, alleviate the pressure searing your scalp, but he’s relentless. He keeps talking all the while, half to you and half to himself as he mumbles. “Lucky for _you_ , I’m patien- _t._ I’m gonna get through that _pretty_ little head of yours _somehow._ Granted, it’s gonna hurt. A lo- _t.”_ You try to whimper out a protest, and not just because your knees are scraped and bleeding from dragging across the ice-covered concrete. “Good thing no one asked _you_ , did they?” He gives your hair another savage tug. 

You don’t know how long it’s been since he shoved Joseph over the edge of the bridge, the terror and rapid beating of your heart convinces you that it must have been a few seconds, but you’re in a part of the park you’re unfamiliar with. A beat-up car sits in the shadows, dirty and dented. 

_Oh, Jesus—_

“Wh-Where are—are you taking me?” you stutter, digging your heels into the snow and losing a shoe. The Joker still doesn’t stop until you're at the back of it, popping open the trunk. You start screaming, knowing that there’s no one here that cares, that will do anything to help. It doesn’t stop you from trying. “Oh, God— _please_ , I— _I’m sorry—”_

Grabbing the nape of your neck, he squeezes until your vision is eclipsed by a bright spattering of stars. He’s laughing, but not because he thinks any of this is funny. 

“What’re you saying sorry to _God_ for?” 

He chuckles darkly, opening the trunk wider and shifting something around. You’re sure there’s a crowbar in there—maybe even a gun. He’s going to kill you—leave you out here to bleed out and die. When he slams your back against the bumper, you stay in place, on the verge of hyperventilating. Pulling out a roll of duct tape, he tears off a strip with his teeth. 

Closing your eyes when he drops to his haunches, you wait for one of his knives to find its way between your ribs, across your throat. 

But it doesn’t. 

Tapping two gloved fingers against your cheek, he hums, waiting for you to open your eyes. He looks kinder now, his smile gentle like that night when you first met, before you knew who he is. Brushing the messy curls sticking to your face behind your ears, his eyes droop, a lazy grin stretching his lips. It makes the cold bury itself in you, a dagger that pierces your heart.

“Don’t worry, doll. I _will_ be your God soon enough. You’ll learn, won’t you? You were so… _quick_ on the uptake before. We’ll get ya there.” Gently—more gentle than someone like him should be able to—his gloved fingers brush across your cheek and he kisses you. It’s quick and soft, but enough that you can taste the greasepaint he leaves behind. He growls. “I _do_ just… _love_ the sight of you on your knees, babygirl. Bu- _t…_ plenty of time for that, uh, _later.”_

You don’t like where this is going. Not at all. 

_“Pl-Please,_ wait—” 

He slaps the piece of duct tape over your mouth, hoisting you up before unceremoniously dropping you in the trunk. You land on something hard that digs into your back and you shout against the tape, reaching to pull it off. He grabs your hand, wrenching your wrist and tearing another muffled scream out of you. Twisting you to the side, he pulls both arms behind your back before snapping something cold and metal around your wrists, tightening it until you lose all feeling in your fingers. Turning you over, he leans in and glares with the intensity of a demon, all rage and the incarnated promise of suffering. 

“If you make a _sound,_ I will _burn_ your entire building to the ground. And I ain’t pulling the fire alarm before I do it,” he says, voice sweet despite the horror in his words. You shiver and whimper, and he laughs quietly into your hair, breathing deeply. “Want that on your, ah, little _conscience?”_

You don’t. You don’t want anyone to get hurt. He’s going to hurt _you_ , that much is clear, but you might still be able to get away. You know that he won’t let any of your neighbours have the same chance. The tears blur your sight, obscuring his ghoulish face, but you nod as hard as your aching head will allow. 

“Oh, _goodie.”_

He slams the trunk closed, leaving you trapped in the dark as overwhelming panic constricts your throat until you can barely breathe. Jumping when he starts the car and revs the engine, he tears out of wherever the hell it is you are, tires spinning as your head hits one of the walls of the trunk. 

_I'm going to die—he’s going to take me out to some field and… and—_

Not able to bear the thought, you try getting your hands out of the cuffs, to get some feeling back in them. He drives erratically, and you hope that the useless cops in this godforsaken city will do their jobs and help you. 

It’s a vain hope, you know it is. 

The fear’s more intense than it was on Halloween, more acute and tearing into you a way the shadows then never could. He’s the literal embodiment of a nightmare, and now he’s going to make sure you’ll never wake up from it. You almost pass out, head getting light as your lungs search for air you can’t give to them, unable to tell if your eyes are open or closed. 

_Maybe I'm already dead… that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?_

You don’t notice when the car stops, only that the air’s a little colder. Something breaks through, something close to a pinch, but it doesn’t chase away the dark. 

It’s only when your head cracks to the side that light floods your eyes, keeping them wide as you jolt and try to twist away only to see that the Joker’s pulled you up in a sitting position, one hand gripping your biceps as the other rests against your throat, stroking your carotid. He laughs at your whine of realization: that there’s no getting out of this, no escape at all. 

“Are you gonna _scream?”_ he asks quietly, raising an eyebrow as he jerks your limp body, trying to make you lucid. You want to do nothing more than pass out, but his hand finds its way into your hair again, tugging at the nape of your neck. 

Shaking your head the best you can, the Joker searches your face, making sure you mean it. Before you can blink, he rips off the tape over your mouth and you barely suppress a shout. The corner of his mouth twitches but he does nothing else, waiting for your answer. 

“N-No…” you choke out eventually, voice hoarse. 

_“N-No?”_ he mocks, screwing up his face to mimic yours. When you close your eyes, he slaps you lightly, setting you on your unsteady feet. You almost fall until he goes behind you, unlocking the cuffs and hooking your arm in his. “Good. One _peep_ out of you and I’ll put a bullet in the next meat-sack I see, got it?” 

Showing you a flash of the gun holster at his side, otherwise hidden by his thick coats, your mind goes blank. You know he isn’t lying—he’d shoot someone right in front of you and laugh. Afraid to say anything, you just keep nodding as he walks, not caring if you stumble or not. Through your bleary eyes, you recognize your apartment building. Words bubble up before you can stop them. 

“I—I didn’t mean—” 

You’re the one to cut yourself off this time. You’re not sure _what_ you didn’t mean to do. None of this is your fault—not getting involved with him in the first place, him breaking into your apartment, certainly not for trying to have a life and do _normal, healthy_ things. 

But you also know that, in a very real way, this _is_ your fault. How many times did you initiate sex with him when he stayed those four days? Who had begged him— _begged him—_ for more, had enjoyed every touch and thrust? 

_Oh, Jesus—why am I so fucking stupid?_

Your building’s quiet. Muffled sounds of TVs and music come from the different apartments as you pass by, but you swallow every shriek that builds in your throat. The stairs are difficult, and you’re on the second to last floor, but he doesn’t slow his pace. Your legs shake after every flight until he’s almost dragging you the rest of the way to your apartment. You’re not sure where he got a key from, but he opens the door and throws you inside, making you land hard on the wood floor. 

“What _am_ I gonna do with you?” 

The Joker flips the deadbolt and slides the chain in place. Cracking his neck, he shrugs off his purple trench coat, leaving you trembling on the floor. 

“So many places to _begin_ , too.” 

He drops it on your small kitchen table, taking off his blazer and unbuttoning his green vest. Your chest cinches so tightly you can barely breathe. He’s just in his dress shirt now, gun holster resting on top of the pile he made, his tie loose around his neck as his eyes wander around your apartment, looking at everything but you.

“I almost— _almost_ don’t know where to start, doll,” he chuckles.

Walking into the kitchen, his hands glide over your butcher’s block, almost caressing the knives. Curling in on yourself as tightly as you can, you try wishing yourself out of existence. 

“You _have_ made me, ah… _pretty_ angry, can’t lie. This is all just so—so _new_ and _exciting!”_ he says, voice rising, tight fists bursting with the energy he describes. 

You inch your way backward, hoping to get to your room to lock yourself in. You don’t have your phone, and the fire escape is your only chance. He giggles when he sees what you’re doing, but he seems content to watch you cowering, his eyes pools of black ink. Slowly following, he feeds you hope that you can get there in time. You’re trying to talk, _beg,_ but can’t make anything come out beside the choked sobs racking through you. 

“What do ya think that’s gonna do, _really?_ Do you think that’s what will keep the _big bad wolf_ from his _little bunny?”_ he taunts, stalking closer until your back hits the doorframe of your living room. 

_Oh God, oh God—someone, help me—_

You know nobody will hear you—not in time to help. 

_No, no—_

Arms shaking so badly that you can’t hold yourself up anymore, you prepare for the worst: for him to start cutting you up—you know that he always carries knives—for him to hit you, _beat_ you, break your bones and tear your skin. His breath hits your face, fans across your neck, and you shudder. A hand touches your neck, the soft leather tracing down to your collarbone, feeling the concave hollow at the base of your throat, the ridges of your sternum until it hits your heaving chest, skirting around your breast before trailing further to your thigh. 

“I just _can’t_ contain myself around you, can I?” he muses, mouth close to your ear. He nibbles on the lobe, taking it between his teeth. With nowhere to go, you let out a strangled whine, eyes screwed shut until his hand traces the inside of your thigh, forcing its way between them. “I thought you were _better_ than… _fraternizing_ with such—such _trash,_ babygirl. I really did. It’s almost like you were _trying_ to make me jealous—” 

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—” you force out, eyes flying open and hands gripping his muscled forearm, trying to keep his fingers from finding your underwear as you squeeze your legs together tighter. 

Your throat’s closing, but you need to try. You’ve seen hints of his anger before, those deadly warnings, and now they’re coming true. He’s going to hurt you in ways you could never imagine before. You can now; they’re all playing out in his eyes right in front of you. 

“I didn’t—didn’t mean to,” you breathe in a shaky whisper. He pulls back marginally, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head to the side. His hand isn’t moving anymore, and you keep trying, not letting yourself give up yet. “I’m so— _so sorry_ , I am. You—you didn’t… I didn’t know—”

“Know _what?”_ he snarls, teeth snapping close to your throat. You cringe back, pressing your hands against his chest like that’ll somehow stop what’s coming. He grips your jaw so hard you’re certain your teeth shift, shaking your head until you cry out. “C’mon, don’t clam up for _Daddy_ now. What. _Didn’t_. You. _Know?”_

He’s too warm—his body against yours is too much. Every part of you is vibrating, building up to what’s going to be your last breath at any moment. You don’t know what he’s going to do—how bad he’s going to make this before he ends it, but you know that you have no control. 

He does. He has all of it and you’re left with nothing, barely even able to beg for mercy. 

_Just answer him—don’t make this worse._

There’s fury in his eyes, but you keep your voice soft, making your hands squeeze his shoulders rather than shove him away. 

“You… you just... _left.”_ He keeps staring at you, but his muscles relax. At least, you think they do—you can almost swear that his shoulders dropped an inch, that his eyes lost a bit of their fire. “I—I waited for—for you, hoping… hoping I'd see you again, and—” When you break off sobbing, he _tsks_ , but his face softens, his thumb stroking your jaw as he stares at your lips. Relief makes your brain too exhausted to think straight, to keep you from saying something stupid. “He—he was nice and—” 

“Nice? _Nice.”_ Just as soon as his anger began to fade, it’s renewed with savage force. His smile is so sweet, sweet like poison that’s being forced down your throat. “Are you saying, ah… that _I’m_ not nice? Is _that_ what you’re telling me, babygirl?” 

_Oh no no no no—_

You cower back, but there’s nowhere to go. _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ —that isn’t… isn’t what I mean—” 

His hands cup your jaw, keeping you close. You think he’s going to slam your head against the wall, but he doesn’t. He smiles, sardonic and cruel, as his voice takes on a mocking lilt. _“Nice_ is what _children_ look for. Is that what you are? _A child?”_ he asks, cadence slow and each word dripping with condescension. 

_Why does he have to be such a bastard?!_

You’d like nothing more than to hit him, to scream that he doesn’t have any say in how you should live your life, that he’s _psychotic_ and should be in prison.

But that would only make him angrier. You’d fan what’s left of your pride for all of sixty seconds before he killed you for the insult. 

_Be smart—maybe… maybe he doesn’t want to kill me. If I can just wait until I can call the police…_

“No—no, that’s—” You take a deep, shuddering breath to calm down. You have to _think,_ stroke his goddamn ego—anything to mitigate the damage. “I… I didn’t—didn’t mean to upset you,” you breathe, flicking your eyes up to stare into his, making yourself not flinch back at the malice in them. “I—it was stupid… _I_ was stupid, and—and I’m… I’m really sorry, _I am—”_

He shifts, hands going to your back to press you into his chest. You can feel the taut muscles, the tension waiting to burst out and lodge in your body like shrapnel, the smell of sweat and gasoline filling your nose. Despite the intense fear that turns your bones brittle and your nerves into livewires that jump at every touch, you lean into him. It feels close to… _nice._ Nice like when he’d stayed those few nights, when he wrapped you up and kept you close, when he’d half-crush you in his sleep and you’d have to wriggle to find somewhere comfortable only to end up closer to his chest, breathing him in. 

“Oh, I _know_ you are,” he says in your ear, stroking your back. You start to comfort yourself—he’s never really hurt you badly before, right? You’ll be OK, you have to be. “That’s why we’re gonna have _lessons._ You’ll learn, babygirl, won’t you?” 

Just as you were relaxing into him, your body freezes. You can’t have heard him right. You can’t. 

_‘Lessons’?..._

Kissing your neck, you feel the barest touch of his tongue before he draws back, smiling softly at you, almost looking close to kind, the red greasepaint blending with the white around his ruined mouth. 

“W-What do you… do you mean?” you ask, hesitant and the fear coming back to hit you in the sternum. 

He doesn’t look angry anymore, and that’s almost worse. Standing, he pulls you up with him, his hand going to the back of your neck. Your dress is hiked up, but when you move to pull it down he squeezes your spine tight, forcing you forward. The tears come back but you swallow them, desperate to keep yourself from completely losing it. 

“I’m gonna teach you who you, ah… _belong_ to,” he says, just as quietly before. It takes all you have not to drop and beg. 

You have a terrible idea of where this is going, what he’s going to do. All too vividly do you remember what he did to your body when it was consensual—the bruises and bite marks and how _every_ part of you was sore for a week. He was actually dedicated to getting you off then, that you enjoyed everything he did. 

There’s no reason for him to care about any of that now. 

He releases you when he shoves you inside your bedroom, locking the door after closing it quietly. Turning to you, his eyes drag up and down your body, smirking. Leaning against the door and folding his arms, he cocks his head to the side, continuing to eye you appreciatively.

_He's going to—he's—_

There’s the window to your right. It usually sticks when you try to open it, but if you can do it quick enough, you might be able to scream for help— 

“Strip.” 

The thoughts in your head wither as you process the command, looking from your only means of escaping back to the man who’s so keen on tormenting you forever. 

“Wh-What—?” Your voice breaks, disbelieving. 

He rolls his eyes and sighs, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand like you just asked the most asinine question you could think of. 

“I, uh, _said…”_ He trails off, shoving himself away from the door and walking toward you. Backing up until you run into a wall, he stops less than a foot away, eyes heavy and looking smug. “Stri- _p.”_

_Oh, Jesus—_

Shaking your head as much as you can, you stare at him with absolute terror. He drinks it all in, licking his lips like a starved wolf. 

“Didn’t you tell Daddy you were _sorry?_ Hmm?” he asks, reaching out to brush his fingers across your cheeks, eyes fixating on your throat. You pull away from his touch, and for some reason it makes him giggle. 

“I—I am, but—”

“Do you wanna do this the, uh, _hard way?”_ he asks, raising an eyebrow and grinning, the poorly-healed gashes further splitting his face. “I _like_ the hard way. Ah, gotta say, I don’t think _you_ will, though.” 

The menace is back, the promise that this is going to be a night filled with agony—a thousand insults and violations. Your legs almost give out, but he turns and starts looking around your room. Desperate, you go to your window, tugging it at, trying to make it budge an inch, but it’s stuck fast. He’s still laughing, and he stops in front of the Christmas lights that are wrapped around a dress mannequin that you got at a thrift sale. Unplugging it, he unspools the colourful string of lights, weighing it in his hands as he looks from it to you. 

Unfortunately, you can tell what he’s thinking. 

“Don’t you dare,” you say with a surprising amount of bite. “You—you can go right to _hell.”_

_Screw it—if he’s determined to hurt me, then I can at least make it hard for him._

His grin grows, becoming entirely genuine and borderline good-natured. Digging in his pants pocket, he pulls out a switchblade and flicks it open. You scream, running past him to the door, trying to unlock it as your hands shake. 

But he’s fast. 

Grabbing your neck, he wrenches you away, snickering at your cries of pain. _“Now,_ either you’re gonna take off that dress or _I_ am. Which do _you_ think’ll be better, _hmm?_ I’m, ah, _partial_ to either.” Digging the edge of the knife under the fabric covering your left shoulder, he twists it upward, cutting through the fabric like it was nothing. A small line of red beads along the wound, stinging as the skin splits and the blood drips down. “What’s it gonna be, babygirl?” 

_There’s—there’s no choice at all, oh God—_

“I—I’ll take it—it off,” you choke out, face burning with the humiliation of it all, keeping your eyes down as your vision blurs. 

He releases you, nodding and rolling his hand in the air in a gesture to make you move faster. Lips and hands shaking, you obey. Turning away so you don’t have to stare at him, you shrug off your jacket the rest of the way, dropping it to the floor, and struggle with the zipper when it catches on the hem as the panic rises. 

“I’ll help with this bit, _hmm?”_ he says, too close behind you and making your jump when you feel his breath on your neck, pulling your hair out of the way as he tugs the zipper down. Kissing the nape of your neck, he slides the dress off your body, hands gliding with it over your arms and stomach, resting on your hips. As much as you hate him, you hate yourself more for how you shiver and lean into him. “See, that’s not _so_ bad is it?” 

You don’t know why, can’t find the language to explain how his touch brings out these reactions in you—the laboured breathing and tingling nerves and how heat pools in the bottom of your stomach, coiling and alive. Before the thought of trying to cover up even crosses your mind, he spins you around and kisses you deeply. Your mouth opens right away, slowly returning it as one hand stays at the small of your back, pressing you into him as the other goes to your breast, his thumb passing over your hardened nipple hidden in the sheer confines of your bra. 

You get lost. Lost in his touch, how your tongues meet and he sucks on yours, teeth biting down ever so slightly. Lost in the tug he gives your nipple before squeezing your breast, your hips pushing against his, feeling his hardening length through the coarse material of his pants. Lost in the haze where the fear turns into something that you recognize as desire. 

_What is wrong with me?_

The thought is a distant one. How you can go from terrified to turned-on is beyond you, but he doesn’t let you think about it, groaning quietly in your mouth, and you feel the rumbling of his chest through his shirt as he keeps you close. 

It’s not until you feel another nick between your breasts that you realize he’s cut your bra, tearing it off your arms as his mouth presses harder against yours, growing more urgent. You shudder when your nipples brush against the fabric of his shirt, moaning when he grips one again, tugging hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth. 

_I really have lost it._

It feels good. Even better somehow than when he stayed before. You forget about Joseph, you forget about the park, how there’s a gun on your kitchen table, a knife in his hand and his promise that he had things to ‘teach’ you. There’s just his touch, the feeling of the soft leather of his gloves against your skin and your body melding with his as he explores your mouth, tasting and devouring you. 

Your fingers work through his hair, gripping it tight as your hips press against his, showing your own sense of urgency at the remembrance of what it felt like to have him inside you, taking his bottom lip between your teeth and sucking. 

Just when you think you could do this forever, it all ends—your arm’s wrenched back, you’re spun around until you’re facedown on the bed, reeling from the loss of contact as your head spins. 

_“What—what are you doing?”_ you try to shout, voice muffled by your unmade duvet. 

“Babygirl, _babygirl,”_ he tuts, wrapping something thick and knobbed around your wrists, cinching it tight. You’re too shocked to scream, your body still caught up in the fire ignited in your stomach and the fear finding its way back to the front of your mind. “Always so— _so sweet,_ but we’ve got a, uh, _long_ night ahead of us. No sense in letting you _ruin_ anything else, is there?” 

You're about to shout again when he yanks your head up by the hair, circling what you now see is your Christmas lights around your throat and then looping it in circles around your waist and ribs, pinning your arms closer to your back, tying it so tight you couldn't move if you wanted to, that it hurts to breathe. 

"J—J, please— _please, stop—"_

He ignores you, pulling you up by the lights around your throat. It digs into your skin to the point it blocks your airway, and he sits you down on the edge of the bed, your head level with his chest. It’s impossible not to take in the strength in his arms and the power you know he has as he stays close, his muscles tensing as you wait for whatever it is he’s going to do, and you try not to heave.

_I—I can't move, he could do anything—oh, God—_

The tears come again as you try to get some slack from your bindings, the freezing air nipping painfully at your naked chest. The tip of his knife rests under your chin, making you still and directing your gaze upward. 

He's staring at you with kind benevolence. It's fake. You know it is. A phony imitation of something he can't actually feel. 

_“Well._ Looks like Christmas came _late_ for me…” 

He drags the blade down your throat, threatening to slit it at any moment. Your muscles convulse, but you make yourself stay still. It's sharp but doesn't cut you yet, the tip skirting your skin, just enough so you know it’s there—and you’re not sure what he’s more enamoured with right now: the knife or you. 

You panic, thrashing against your bindings until they tear into your skin. On the verge of screaming, you sob, keeping your head down in shame. He responds by gently pushing you on your back. He’s at the foot of your bed, dragging you forward by the hips until he's between your dangling legs. Laughing to himself, taking the loose end of the string of lights and plugging it into your extension cord, making your body light up as he descends into a fit of giggles. 

“But you sure look like a _pretty_ little _present_ to me. Looks like Santa gave me my very own bunny to _love_ and _hold.”_

Slowly, he puts the edge of the knife under your panties, cutting them a few stitches at a time. Sucking in your stomach doesn't save you from the small cuts his knife makes, the sharp pangs that are only a precursor to what he's going to do. 

_Reason with him, don't give up yet—_

But you can't find any reason in this, what he's doing. Everything that comes out of your mouth is pathetic, but you can't stop yourself. 

"Don't—don't hurt me, please, _please—"_ you beg, your breathing laboured. He does stop, just for a moment, and you have hope. That's until you see him eyeing your breasts, his tongue swiping across his lips as he growls. "Please, _please_ — _"_

He looks at you with shocked disbelief. “I’m _wounded_. Don’t you _trust_ your Daddy, babygirl?” he asks, putting the knife against his chest and raising his eyebrows.

“Is—is that a trick question?” you squeak without thinking.

He laughs, but it’s wicked. Raising the tip of the switchblade, he looks from it to you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Now, should we find out how _naughty_ you’ve been while I was gone?” 

With a quick movement you can't track with your eyes, one side of your panties is cut right through. You can't help yourself this time; you writhe, trying to get as far away as possible, and scream. 

_"Someone, help me!"_

You don't care that he's glaring, grabbing your bindings and tugging you back—you twist away, hoping your neighbours will hear. 

_"Anyone—!"_

A hand slams over your mouth, the tip of his knife digging under your breast until it draws blood. You scream, shriek as you go hoarse, and he clenches your jaw and snarls until you quieten, the fight draining out of you when he straddles your hips. Your arms are still tied tightly behind you, your elbows and shoulders screaming, the pain almost all you can focus on—and you couldn't fight him even if you wanted to. 

He has all the power, and you have none. 

_“Shh, shh, shh_ ,” he whispers in your ear. His hands tuck your tear-soaked hair behind your ears and trace along your neck. His touch is gentle, but he doesn't let up the pressure on the knife. “Don’t _cry_ so much. You’ll learn to like all of this… _eventually.”_

Before you can give a muffled reply, he's removed the knife and slithers down, taking your nipple in his mouth. You gasp without meaning to, your back arching. He chuckles against your skin, flicking his tongue back and forth before releasing it with a wet _pop._ The fear makes everything too sharp, but your body's confused—sending mixed signals of pleasure and pain. Your body always wanted him no matter how you tried to rationalize it, and it's horrifying that you're still responding the same way. Gripping your breast, he licks the underside of it, lapping up the blood and making it burn. 

Sitting up, your blood a darker red against the greasepaint coating his lips, he smiles. He brushes away the tears that fall, savouring how you're a sobbing mess beneath him. The knife's back, tracing light patterns across your cheek, and he hums, leaning away until almost all his weight is on your hips.

"You _tryin'_ to make me—make me _angry,_ doll?" he asks. 

He sounds calm, but you can see the fury just under the surface, ready to go for your jugular. You shake your head as much as you can with the knife by your face, and whimper when he gets close again. Popping his lips, his nose almost touches yours. You can see with terrifying clarity how thick his eyelashes are, the white greasepaint highlighting every indent, scar and wrinkle on his skin, the black smudges weeping down his cheekbones and blending with the rest. His lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“Here’s what you need to do, babygirl," he begins, tongue swiping out to lick yours as you press them tightly together, every part of you shaking, "I need you to… _convince_ me that you’ll be a _good girl_ from now on. _I_ need to believe you, and _you_ need to believe it, too. Ya get me?”

_What—what’s he saying?_

"I… I don't understand…" you whisper, unable to tear your eyes away from his. You feel like you're on the edge of something—the edge of his knife, the edge of sanity, the edge of losing your life. You thought you couldn't go back before, but you know that this will be very different; if you live, you won't be the same, not ever. 

And who'll catch you when you fall? 

"Now, this is the _one and only_ chance I'm gonna give you. So, ah… listen _real_ good." 

He adjusts, moving to the side to bring your limp legs up and wrap them around his waist. With one hard tug, the remnants of your panties are gone. You whimper and cry, closing your eyes as he takes in every part of your body before leaning back over you, your clit rubbing against his thigh and making you swallow a groan. 

"I'm givin' you a chance to _change my mind._ Y'know what happens to good girls?" 

Before you can even think about an answer, he presses a gloved finger against your entrance, pushing it in a little bit at a time. It hurts at first, the leather of his glove pulling at your skin, but you're ashamed to feel how wet you've become when he gets past the first tight ring. You bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning when his finger draws back to circle your clit. 

"They feel _good._ Simple, ain't it?" 

His finger enters you fully, pumping slowly, in and out. You suck in a breath, hips arching away from him as you pant. Giggling at your reaction, he kisses you, more paint smearing across your face as you open your mouth wider, taking his tongue eagerly. He never changes his pace, and your hips buck against your will. 

"Y'know what happens to _bad_ girls?" he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes again. When you don't answer, he stills his hand, almost withdrawing completely. 

You don't know what's wrong with you, why you're keening for him, why your hole's aching for his attention—but the fear flees, leaving you in that fog again as you try to make your brain work, to shove away the thoughts about how you want him to keep touching you. 

"Wh-What?" you ask, voice just as quiet. 

It's already too late when you feel something cold on your stomach. 

"They. Feel. _Bad."_

He has his knife pressed against your skin, pushing down and dragging it across. It doesn't hurt until you see the long, thin line of blood that blooms where he split you open. Your stomach muscles are tight, your body straining to get away from him and unable to move anywhere, and you scream—not because it's especially painful or it's too deep, but because you _know_ he won't stop with just that, that this is just the beginning. 

_He's really going to kill me, I'm going to die and—_

He silences you with his mouth over yours, swallowing the sound as his finger goes back to moving in and out of you, his thumb brushing your clit, the ridge of the seam making the nerves jump with every pass. It's not until your shouts are replaced with reluctant moans, your hips moving again as you feel a tight heat building inside you, that he takes his mouth away, his tongue trailing down your neck and sternum to the shallow incision he made. It stings and you cry out, but he licks along it, sucking in the blood as if he were going down on you, making sure to get every last drop into his mouth. 

You don't know why, _how_ it feels good—like getting high and your brain becoming hyper-aware, each nerve becoming receptive only to ecstasy instead of pain, transforming agony into something you can get off on—but you know it's something you've only ever felt with him. 

That's a jolting thought. The Joker's the only person who's ever made you feel _good._ Good in the ways you wanted, that you _needed._

He's building you up, your pussy tightening around him as you gasp and whine, getting louder when he bites down hard on your nipple, his hand moving faster and faster until— 

_No, no, wait—_

He pulls his hand away, teeth releasing you after leaving bite marks and bruises behind on your breasts. You raise your head in question, mind still coming down from the unexpected loss of stimuli, your hole aching anew at his absence. Sticking his cum-soaked finger in his mouth, smiling around it and winking at you, he raises himself up and straddles you again, keeping your legs far apart but never touching you there. 

"Why—why did you stop?" you ask, completely out of breath and the cut on your stomach almost forgotten. You're not asking the right questions, you know you're not, but that doesn't seem to matter to you much at the moment. 

One side of his lips quirk up in a smirk, his eyes roving down your body and heavy with lust. "That mean you _want_ me to keep going, hmm?" 

Your face gets hot, embarrassment and confusion making the flush sweep down to your chest. You would've called this sexual assault until five minutes ago—hell, it still probably is even if you're too out of it to think about it that way—but how it transformed into something that even _resembles_ consensual is beyond you. When you nod, his grin expands, losing the malice and becoming genuine instead, but he raises an eyebrow, encouraging you to continue, to say it out loud. 

_Why is he such a bastard?_

"I… I want—I want more," you say quietly, looking up at him from under your lashes. His fingers rub gentle circles just below your navel, getting close to your pubic bone but no further than that. You swallow hard. "I want… I want _you_ , J." 

He growls his approval, kissing you in a way that feels tender despite the force behind it, his teeth nibbling your lips and the taste of your blood on his tongue and the bruising force of his mouth against yours. His finger passes over your clit, making your body jump and making you groan for more. He draws back, resuming his position of barely touching you save for a finger on top of your nipple, pushing the hardened nub back and forth in a way that sends thrums of electricity down to your clit. 

_"Good girls_ get to cum, and, ah… you're no- _t_ a good girl yet, are you?" he says. The wickedness is back, the plain look of amusement at watching you become increasingly needy, a willing body that's eager for his affection. "Who do you _belong_ to?" 

You almost don't register the question, your own need smothering any thought that comes.

_Did he say… 'belong to'? What's that supposed to mean?_

"I… I don't understand…" you pant, brows knitting together in confusion. 

He rolls his eyes and slaps his forehead, some of the white transferring to his purple glove. "Oh my—the _things_ I have to teach you…" he mutters, wagging a finger at you until he gets off of the bed. 

You don't have time to ask questions, he's dragging you closer to the edge until your legs are almost completely off, your toes barely touching the floor. Your head’s hanging off from the crooked angle he has you on, making you strain to support your neck and maintain eye contact. You wish your bed wasn't so high up, how it leaves your hips at level with his. He grips your thighs, leaning over you to make sure you don't look away. 

"Repeat after me: I _belong_ to my Daddy. My, ah, _pussy_ is his," without warning, he shoves three fingers inside of you, making you yelp in pain and try to twist away, but his grip keeps you in place, "my _tits_ are his," still leaning over you, he bites the side of your breast hard enough to burst blood vessels and you yelp louder, trying to keep from screaming, "my _body_ is his." He finishes by pumping all three fingers in a steady motion, his thumb finding your clit again. Any pain melts away into that burning heat rising again, that desperate need to cum, and he looks on with malicious entitlement when you moan. 

_No, no way—he can't—he can't make me say that._

It's too humiliating, using language that made you cringe before. Why it's making you get wetter every time the word _Daddy_ comes out of his mouth is beyond you, but you won't say it, don't know how to form words as mortifying as that. 

"I—I can't—" you force out, chest heaving as he stares at your breasts, licking his lips. 

Once again, you don't notice the knife until it's against you again, making a deeper cut down your sternum. You shriek, the sobbing and tears coming back even as he keeps building the pressure on your clit, bringing you so close to the edge until your body can't separate out what's pain and what's pleasure. 

"I… I belong to—to my… my D-Daddy." It comes out like there's razor blades in your mouth, the metallic taste in your mouth intensifying as you salivate. You're not sure if it's because you're going to throw up or because he's almost making you cum. "My—my—" you break off with a sob, the shame of this, of you being tied up with Christmas lights burning your skin, your body presented to him in a way that leaves you so vulnerable, whining as your pussy tightens around his fingers—it's more than you can take. _"Please, don't make me_ —" 

He digs his finger into the new cut with a snarl, ripping it open as he gives a hard shove inside you, the leather of his glove pulling on your sensitive skin. 

"My… my p-pussy belongs to him, my—my… my tits are his, my—" 

You sob again, shutting your eyes as you hammer in the last nail of your coffin. 

_There won't be any getting away from him now. He's, he's—_

He's not going to leave unless he wants to, and you cry knowing that it means he'll kill you when he's finished, when he gets bored and moves on. 

"My body… my body is—is his—" You're fighting back a moan when your back arcs, another sob breaking through. "I— _I'm yours—"_ you finish. Just when you think he's going to let you cum this time, let you spill over, he takes away his hand again. Before you can voice your protests, he shoves his fingers into your mouth. 

_"Suck,"_ he orders, pushing deeper. Choking at the intrusion, you obey, looking up at him in fear and frustration as you force your tongue to go between his digits, tasting the leather, dirt, and the bittersweet taste of yourself. He hums appreciatively, slowly moving in and out of your mouth like he had with your pussy a moment before. _"There_ we go… that's a _good girl,"_ he praises. 

The burning between your legs is worse, a throbbing mess that won't let you think about anything else. Your hips grind against empty air, looking for something to relieve this different sort of agony and finding nothing. It's not until he makes you choke on his fingers that he pulls them out, leaving long lines of drool trailing down your chin and landing on your chest. He licks it up, collecting more blood from the fresh cut as he does so, making you whimper pathetically. 

"Aww, was that _hard?"_ he mocks, coming back up to look in your eyes, brush a thumb across your cheeks. You can't stop crying, but you make yourself nod, not trusting yourself to speak. "But you're _learning._ Progress is _good,_ babygirl. You're getting there, hmm?" You just keep nodding, closing your eyes as you focus on breathing, on trying to get a hold of yourself and knowing you won't be able to. _"Good girl,"_ he murmurs, gentle again, kissing you so sweetly before pulling away. You're confused as to how you can miss his touch already. 

_What's… what's happening to me?_

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing his lean, muscled chest that’s riddled with scars, burns, and parts of tattoos that you’ve become so familiar with. He maintains eye contact all the while, looking like he did on Halloween—like a mix between your saviour and a creature from hell, the black pits for eyes and wide grin antithetical images that only deepen your confusion. 

"Hmm, maybe this is, ah, _my_ fault, babygirl. Daddy shouldn't have left his _needy_ little bunny alone for so long." 

He runs his fingers through your hair, making it fan around your head. That condescending look is back, that absolute certainty that he knows all of life’s secrets and holds them close, willing to give you one at a time. It makes your stomach drop, and you can’t tell if it’s terror or excitement that runs through you, jolting your spine and making you all too conscious of every movement, every breath you both take. He unbuckles his belt, pulling down the zipper of his pants and spreading your legs. The cold air against your bare skin leaves you shivering violently, the colourful lights radiating around you only heightening the unreality that this night’s become. You feel something warm and wet against your entrance, and you choke back a cry, unable to tell if it's from unfulfilled lust or the fear that's defining your existence. 

"I think… you need me— _my cock_ —too often for that, hmm? That's _my_ mistake, not very… _thoughtful_ of me. I won't do _that_ again." 

You don't really know what he's saying, what he means. 

_I don't want to know…_

But there's a certainty, deep in your chest that rings true, that he's right. 

You _do_ want him, and you're not sure what you'd do if he was gone anymore. 

His hands dig into your hips, lining you up as he drives himself into you. Air stutters in your chest, driving your head back as you moan, back arching as you struggle to take him in. It's painful in a way that makes you feel alive, sore but eager to continue like pressing down on a healing bruise. Once he bottoms out, the Joker lets out a quiet roar, the vibration of it something you feel in your clit, and you can't help but marvel at how he manages to do this to you every time. 

Instead of slamming into you like you'd hoped he would, he stays still, his fingers twitching and bruising your sides. He pants with the effort, eyes alive with something that makes you think of what he said—about how he's the big bad wolf. With how he's leaning over you, with his ravaged mouth and black eyes, with the pulsing muscles that are waiting to tear into you—you realize it's true. 

He's a wolf, and he's going to devour you whole. 

“We're gonna have so much _fun_ now, aren't we?" he breathes, teeth almost breaking the skin on your shoulder, your chest pressed against his, and a thrill going through you when you feel his heart beating just as fast as yours. Withdrawing as slowly as he entered, he says, "You’re _my_ little _slutty_ bunny now.” 

He starts fucking you. Hard. Rattling your teeth with every thrust, his hands dwarfing your breasts as he grips them for leverage. Everything else falls away—it’s just him inside you, the pain that reaches up to the middle of your stomach, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body contorting as you search for a place of reprieve and finding none.

The orgasm that he built up and denied you before forms into a wave, pulling back until it feels like you’re going to burst. You can’t make any words form, gasping for air when he starts tugging at the string of lights wrapped around your throat, making you see stars as you convulse, the pain turning into a strange form of euphoria. You’re almost there—you can feel yourself tightening, getting ready to cum—when he stops again. A desperate, keening whine that comes out in a sob tears out of your constricted throat, looking for him to beg—to let you have some release, something that feels good—you can’t find him, your vision almost entirely black. 

“Daddy’s little slut wants to cum, doesn't she?” he says in your ear, his tongue tracing the edges and curves of it. It makes you squeeze harder around him, eliciting a groan from him, a twitch of his cock inside you. But it isn’t enough, he doesn’t move to alleviate the need between your legs that’s soaking through your bedsheets. "How, ah… _bad_ do you want it, hmm?" he whispers, slowly moving until his full length is sheathed inside you to the point you could swear you feel it pressing against your spine. 

Any answer you try to make stays as incomprehensible moans and whimpers, trying to move your hips even when he’s holding them still, and the shame stabs like a knife when you feel drool trickle from the corner of your mouth, your chest struggling to get enough air. You think you’re saying _please, please more_ over and over, but you’re not sure—only aware of the burning, all-consuming need to cum, to feel him pull in and out, push you over the edge completely. 

He withdraws instead, making you howl your disappointment, your desperation. Propping up your limp body, he gives you a shake, releasing the grip on the strings around your neck so that you can breathe, your vision clearing. 

And the first thing you see is his cock in front of your face, the glistening tip almost meeting your lips. You don’t know why it makes you salivate more, breathing in the musky scent of you both, the small lines of sweat going down the hard lines of his abdomen. 

"Gonna have to work a _bit_ harder than that." Your head doesn’t feel attached to your body, loosely hanging and only supported by his grip on the back of your neck. Everything feels muffled, the throbbing in your aching pussy and pulsing clit the only part of your existence that you understand anymore, and you take in the small drop of precum leaking from him with distant curiosity, your lips parting. _"Open up."_

You obey without thinking, jaw hanging open as he rubs the tip of his cock against your lips, coating them in the slick you both created, immersing you in the haze until you’re not sure what existed outside of this, what your name is. But when he pushes himself further in, your jaw stretching wide to accommodate his significant width, it all comes crashing back—blinking hard and making sounds of protest as he pushes himself in further until he hits the back of your throat. 

"That's it, _that's it…"_ You start to choke, tears springing to your eyes as you move away, trying to get him out of your mouth, your jaw aching already. But he holds the back of your head, only giving you a second to adjust before forcing the rest in, ignoring your gag reflex and holding it inside you. _"Relax_ and take me in, _that's right."_

He’s _cooing_ at you, stroking your cheek with one hand as the other prevents you from moving, your mouth filled with the taste of you both as you try to scream, your airway obstructed as you start to panic, your body spasming at the unwelcome intrusion, desperate to get him out—to vomit and pass out, to die and have this be over with—but the Joker doesn’t know those kinds of mercies, and he seems to determined that you understand that, too. 

"Don't you look so _pretty_ with my cock in your mouth," he says, tugging on your hair until you meet his eyes. There’s something like tenderness, but it’s always tempered by his cruelty. Pulling back, giving you a moment of relief, he smiles like the devil when his cock twitches, adding a small pool of precum in your mouth, making you gag around him. _"C'mon,_ babygirl, show your Daddy _how much_ you mean it, _hmm?"_

Shoving his full length back in your mouth, he makes you adjust around him, not caring how much you splutter, how your throat convulses or how hard you cry. He fucks your mouth much like he did your cunt, punishing and unrelenting, going until you’re just caught in the sensations of it—the smooth and almost slimy tip creating a thicker coating on your tongue, adding to the drool that won’t stop pouring out of the corners of your mouth, passively stroking the underside of his cock, instinctively sucking in your cheeks and taking it further and further, the oxygen deprivation almost lulling you into unconsciousness.

He was close when he was fucking you before, and he’s not far away now. You continue to choke and struggle, your body only held up by his grip on your head, you feel his cock twitch and throb, the movements of his hips becoming jerkier and erratic. 

Just when you think you’ll pass out—maybe even die if you’re lucky—he pulls out until it’s just his tip left resting against your tongue and cums. His roar is muffled when he bites his lips, his whole body erupting in shudders as spurt after spurt of cum is deposited in your mouth. It’s warm and salty and bitter, but your throat closing up at the shock of it leaves you gagging harder, almost throwing up around him and his cum nearly going up your nose. You want this to stop, to get him out of your mouth, and when he finally stills, his cum thick and hot on your tongue and against your cheeks, you look up to beg, for him to finally have pity on you—forgive your transgression with this final humiliation and leave you alone. 

He continues to disappoint you, smiling so—so _benignly_ as he massages your jaw, keeping your mouth around him, tutting while he waves a finger at you. “Don’t you _dare_ swallow that… keep it there, Daddy wants to see when he’s done.” He’s talking low, but there’s a clear warning in his voice, and when you look up, he twitches again, adding one last stream of cum in your mouth. He pops his cock out and you try not to spit it out immediately. “Daddy’s _claimed_ your mouth, and he wants a good look, babygirl. _Open up._ ”

The tears are a reaction to having him in your mouth, not being able to get it out. His hand goes to your chin and tilts your head back. He’s leaning over you and the look in his eyes is terrifying. Trying not to choke, you open your mouth and try not to be sick. 

“Mmm _-mmm_ … _pretty_ as a picture…” 

His finger drags along your chin, picking up the cum that spilled out before and rubbing it on your lips. He puts it in your mouth, touching your tongue and swirling the large pools of cum sitting in there. Reaching back into the pocket of the pants hanging loosely around his hips, he pulls out a cell phone. Closing your eyes and flinching away, it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done to keep your mouth open and not throw up everywhere.

_Oh no, no—he’s not going to do… He is, oh God—_

“ _Smile_ for the camera.” Before you can say anything, you hear the sound of several pictures being taken. You keep your eyes closed and cry as he takes a few more.

_I hate you—I fucking hate you, you sick fucking degenerate._

“You can _swallow_ now, babygirl,” he says. It’s a light tone, making it sound so easy. You want nothing more than to puke it up on the floor. 

Your whimpering doesn’t stop, and he stays in place, watching with a smug, pernicious smirk as you slowly close your mouth. 

“ _Swallow it_.” 

_Mind over matter, just do it… don’t make him angrier._

It’s the only thing that gets you through it, makes you swallow the thick load, feel it drip and drag down your throat and collect in your stomach. You want more than anything to be dead—anywhere else than here. You hate him—hate him so much that you could take a screwdriver and gouge out his eyes—but you hate yourself more. Hate how you still want him, still crave his skin against yours, how a sick, twisted part of you liked what he did, the taste of him in your mouth. When it’s finally all down, you suck in huge gulps of air and an involuntary sob comes out. 

“ _Valiant_ effort, babygirl.” You’re expecting there to be something crueller coming, trying to gain some control over yourself but you’re shaking in fear. He drops down, sitting on the bed next to you as he rubs your back. “Your, ah, _form_ needs improving, but I think you have the makings of a _real_ natural.” 

He chuckles darkly, licking up the spilled spit that dripped down your chin, landed on your chest. The heat between your legs has only gotten worse, turning into a point that’s twisting your body, driving your whole existence to it—that desperate need to feel good. For _him_ to make you feel good. 

_You fucking bastard. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking do it._

If you didn’t feel so drained—so humiliated and dehumanized, you would have tried _very_ hard to break his jaw. 

“ _Goddamn,_ babygirl. That was— _hoo boy_.” He takes a big breath and his eyes are fixed somewhere over your head. His hand finds your chest, where the bits of his cum dripped out, and he rubs it into your skin, pinching your nipple. “That was… that was _beautiful_. I _like_ seeing my babygirl _full_ of my cum.” 

You still can’t move your arms, can barely breathe and sit up straight. Despite the primal urge to have him inside you, make you cum and give you that release, you’re too exhausted to think. Leaning against the only thing you can, your head lands on his chest, your wracking sobs loud and making your head feel like it’s being crushed. 

_This is too much. He’s… he’s going to kill me now, isn’t he?_

“No—no more, please.” Begging hasn’t done anything yet. You know that. Why you’re bothering is something you attribute to your lack of sensory awareness, how simple things have become, how you can barely form a thought. “I’m so—I’m so _tired.”_

You cry again, your small chest shaking with them, searching for comfort from the one inflicting your suffering. He strokes your hair, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. He’s cum, that must mean he’s done, right? You should be able to sleep, drift away.

But the Joker has other plans. 

“Oh, but we’re _just_ getting started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is coming soon, so keep an eye out, and happy Galentine's Day 😘.


	2. You're a Joker and I'm a Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, my lovelies! I hope you enjoy this twisted, _twisted_ ride. The Joker might have a fucked-up, stunted way of showing love and affection, but know that mine is sincere and that I appreciate you all deeply! Once again, this goes out to my beautiful and supportive friends who've encouraged me to keep writing. Every one of my readers makes this worthwhile, thank you! 💖

You almost don’t think you heard him right. Hearing cutting in and out, your vision spotty and inconsistent, you’re only really aware of the warmth of his chest, the comfort of his arms around you. Thinking about what he means isn’t something you can handle; you’re only able to shake your head and hope it’s enough. 

But it never is. 

Hands cupping your jaw, he lifts your face to his, all his anger gone. You think you might be smiling, but you can’t be sure—you could still be crying for all you know—you’re just focused on the promise of sleeping, of waking up and realizing this was a dream after all. 

When his lips meet yours, his tongue working its way into your mouth, licking at the traces of his cum left behind, reality ekes back, hinting at what you want to ignore. 

He’s not finished with you yet. 

“What Daddy wants…” he trails off, moving you until your back is against his chest and you’re resting between his legs, head against his shoulder. Hand wandering down to massage your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Even that’s too much stimulation, adding to the agony you feel in your cunt. Unable to move your upper body, you just take it—squirming as you bury your face against his neck and whimpering loudly when he sticks a finger inside you, carefully avoiding your clit. “Daddy _gets_ , babygirl. You’ll take what I give you because _I say so_ , and you’re gonna say _thank you_ when I’m finished.”

_No, no, wait—_

There isn’t any opportunity to argue; he leans around and kisses you hard, wet and sloppy and biting at your lips. His finger pumps faster, getting you back to where you were until it feels like there’s hot coal pressed against your clit. Your hips buck mindlessly, eager to take him in as any resistance you had leaves, only turning into desperate and passive acceptance. 

It’s like he can sense the difference, snickering into your mouth before breaking the kiss, nuzzling your hair, his finger picking up the pace. “All you’re gonna think about is Daddy’s cock being _inside_ _you_ , _fucking you, filling you up.”_

The words should be repulsive, completely degrading, something that upsets you, brings out another wave of tears. Instead, you get wetter, your pussy dripping and spasming around his finger, eager for him to add another. He laughs louder, almost breaking the spell you’re under. 

_“See?_ Your cunt’s, uh… _already_ getting used to it. The rest of ya will follow, don’t you worry about that. Daddy’ll make sure.” 

Quicker than you can think, he pushes you forward so that you’re on your stomach, your face pressed into the mattress. You feel him spread your legs and, without waiting, he enters you roughly in one quick stroke, making you cry out as he groans. He pins your hips to his, digging his hands into your sides and pulling you toward him. 

_“Oh, yeah,_ babygirl,” he growls loudly, pushing into you harder and making you yelp as he talks into your ear. “This pussy is _mine… all mine.”_

You sob at the sensation of it, going from feeling so empty to too full, that feeling of being skewered even if you want it to never stop. Your pussy can’t take any more—this is too much, too overwhelming and painful. You want to reach back and push on his hips, make him ease up, but you don’t have any power in your limbs, your bindings still too tight and cutting off any feeling in them. 

“Please, D-Daddy, _please wait—”_

You hate the language he’s using, that you’re using it now, too—and he doesn’t listen, grabs your hair and pulls, lifting up your torso as you shriek and he grips a breast hard. 

_“Patience,_ babygirl. You’ll be screaming for it soon enough. Remember when you so—so _nicely_ begged for me before? When I said that, ah… I was gonna make you _beg_ for everything?” The pain eases back into pleasure, your mind only focusing on where your bodies meet, how he keeps hitting the deepest parts of you. _“I want you to beg.”_

You don’t get to say anything in response, he pulls back—making your sore pussy feel relief and an emptiness that part of you wants to always be full. He’s inexorable, pounding into you hard and you’re too exhausted to respond or resist, only taking it as he assaults you over and over, finding something that gives you a gut-punch of dopamine to your brain, toes curling as you get louder. 

You don’t know how long he’s been going, but he reaches around and places a finger on your clit; tantalizing and gentle, barely-there and enough to drive you completely mad. You’re so wet from earlier, but the sounds of his cock thrusting into the intense damp increase and get louder. 

“Can ya hear that, babygirl? Your _pussy_ wants it, so _beg me_ for it.” He pushes hard on your clit again and your cunt spasms. 

“I—I—” He’s thrusting into you so hard you can barely breathe. Every time he shoves himself inside you, he drives the air from your lungs and you yelp and gasp each time. “I—I want—I want it—” 

His groans build. Somehow, he’s going faster. One hand’s biting into your hip while the other works your clit furiously. Your climax is building, and you hope— _hope_ that he’ll let you cum this time. You don’t know what will happen to you if you don’t, if he won’t take you there.

There definitely is no coming back, and you find that you’re OK with that. As long as this doesn’t stop. 

It feels much more imminent, like you’re barely a centimetre away and it promises to be strong. He feels close, too—his snarls are only getting louder and his grip is hard enough to leave deep bruises. His thrusts are faster but shallow—almost unable to stand to pull out too far, wanting to stay buried in you but needing the friction to get his own release.

“Tell your Daddy where his cum belongs, babygirl. Where should it all go?”

He’s more savage with his thrusts. One hand comes up and slaps against your ass, and you jerk and scream. He doesn’t stop thrusting and he hits you harder. You fall back into the disgusting language from before when you think you can get your mouth to work, your jaw still sore from his assault earlier, finding the words that hurt your heart but make your clit feel divine. 

“I-Inside me— _ah!_ —my Daddy's cum belongs— _mm—it belongs inside me!”_

He growls and rubs your ass, never stopping the movement of his hips. 

“That's _right_ , babygirl. All of Daddy's cum goes _inside_ you. Your _mouth_ , your _pussy…_ ” His hand grips your ass hard, squeezing in time with his thrusts. A finger touches just above your pussy where he’s pounding into you, until it stops at the hole he hasn't touched yet. “It'll go in _here_ eventually, babygirl. _You can count on that.”_

You try not to think about what his words mean, all you can focus on is needing to finish, desperate to feel him empty in you as you cum. It’s never something you thought you’d want, but right now you don’t know how you’ll live without it. 

_“D-Daddy_ , I want you—I want you to cum in me, f-fill me up— _please, cum in me—”_

You’re so close you can’t take it. He goes harder, feeling like he’s going to crush you under the pressure of his grip and the force of him slamming into you. 

_“Daddy, please!”_ you scream, your body convulsing. 

He presses firmly onto your clit and it’s all you need to be pushed over the edge. It hits you like a bolt of lightning, leaving you wanting to curl into a ball and break all your bones as you tighten into a point of pressure and let out one final screech.

As if you can command him without words, he slams into you one more time and you can feel him bursting inside you. He’s letting out a low yell and his head hits your shoulder as he leans over, thrusting slower and slower as he empties himself into you. His breathing’s heavy, his hands flat on your back—supporting his weight by pushing you into the mattress, sweat marking your skin where his forehead rests, and he kisses your shoulder blade before pushing himself up. 

You can't keep your eyes open, barely cognizant of the string of lights loosening around you, the blood rushing back into your arms, the soft touch of fingers on your temple, stroking your hair. Someone might be whispering in your ear, saying sweet things and promising you the world. 

But that doesn't matter right now. 

When something warm wraps around you, you draw towards it, holding on tight and not letting go. 

“You’re Daddy’s good girl, aren’t you, _hmm?”_ he murmurs, pinching your nipple again as he runs the pad of his finger up your clit with his other hand. If you had the ability to breathe deep enough, you’d scream from the overstimulation, but you manage to stutter out a _yes_ and it’s like a knife in your side, a betrayal of yourself. "Whaddya say? _Hmm?"_

You just can’t bring yourself to care. 

“Th-Thank you, Daddy…” you trail off, ashamed and bashful, burying your face in his neck as you close your eyes, letting it be enough to keep breathing him in and have his gentle touch dancing around your skin. You're on your side now, facing him, but he’s still inside you even as you feel his cock softening. 

He laughs into your hair, nudging his limping cock a little deeper inside and eliciting a groan from you both. _“See?_ You’re a, uh, _fast learner_ after all.” Kissing you, soft and gentle and lazy, he holds you closer as his breathing slows. “And I’ll keep teachin’ ya. We’ll get you there.” 

You’re not sure where “there” is, but, right now, it doesn't matter. Falling asleep in his arms, any resolve you have left dies, just leaving you willing to take whatever it is that he has to give. 

* * *

_What do I do now?_

It’s not the first time you’ve thought it and it won’t be the last. 

It’s only with him that you can find that sensation of floating, like you’re not anywhere on earth, transcending to some other plane where your mind is separate from your body, disconnected but occupying the same container. He doesn’t crush you in your sleep this time, only cradling you to him, keeping you pinned close and warm through the night. You let that be enough, to not let your brain wander and cause you more pain. 

And, somehow, you sleep better than you have in years. 

Feeling _safe_ with him shouldn’t be something that you can experience this easily, but you _do—_ being with the Joker like this, your combined mess between your legs, pooling there and soaking the sheet under you, his arms around you and nose buried in your hair, your face against his shoulder, it’s… nice. More than that, it feels… not like home, maybe, but as though it _could_ be. As though there isn’t anything else to be afraid of, that there isn’t anything else that exists, nothing else that matters. 

When the sun’s long since risen and you’re both still in bed, your body makes you move to get up even though you'd like to stay immobile for a month. You thought he'd marked every part of you before, made you so sore and achy, but it's nothing compared to how you feel now. Almost every part of you is covered in bruises—ones in the shape of large handprints and others from where the Christmas lights dug in, the lights leaving singe marks and wobbly lines. Your knees are skimmed and scabbed with thick, dried lines of blood and broken skin. You can only imagine what your face and neck look like, how much of his smudged, sweaty mess of greasepaint transferred onto you. It's distantly upsetting, not clicking in that the man next to you, breathing so deeply with his arm slung over your waist, did those things. You can't even find fear or the woman you were before. They're both gone and you can't decide if that's for the best or not. 

_Don't… don't think about it. Showering will make me feel better…_

As gently as you can, you move the Joker's arm, slipping away and biting your tongue to keep from groaning when your muscles twist and throb in protest, and head for your bathroom, leaning heavily against the wall for support. You’re not entirely sure how you get there without waking him up, you’re fairly certain that you were quite loud despite your best efforts, or how you get in the shower without completely keeling over and smacking your head, but you manage to turn on the hot water and stay steady on your feet as you wince and cringe when the stream hits your cuts and bruises. 

_What have I gotten myself into? How do I get out of it? Do I want to?_

Your head hurts thinking about it, unable to find answers when they should be simple. He’s sleeping—you could’ve called the police, ran to your neighbours’, even grabbed the gun you know is still sitting on your table. But you didn’t and you don’t want to. There’s no getting away from this, you know that. Resistance might come back to you later, but it won’t help you now. Getting through the next few hours, waiting until he inevitably leaves so you can pull yourself back together— _that’s_ what you need to focus on. 

That is, until you hear the bathroom door open. 

Before you can even properly turn around, the Joker’s ripping your shower curtain open, on the precipice of rage until he sees that you’re naked. One side of his mouth quirking up, any anger disappears as his eyes wander from your calves to your ass. Covering yourself is useless, but you still cross your arms over your chest self-consciously. 

“Thought you were, ah… _silly_ enough to run away on me for a minute, doll,” he says, stepping into the shower with you and not bothering to close the curtain behind him. It’s not the biggest thing in the world, and you feel trapped with him taking up so much space with his broad shoulders and unwillingness to leave you alone. “Good thing you’re a, uh, _smart_ cookie, hmm?” 

You’re not sure what you’ll say if you open your mouth, so you just nod, leaning your back against his chest when his hands rub your arms, his mouth finding your neck. His hands snake down to your stomach, resting there as he starts to suck on your skin, marking it further as your heart rate picks up. 

“You having a _nice_ shower, babygirl?” he asks against your skin, planting gentle kisses down your shoulder as you sink further into him, going back into the headspace that focuses on the feelings, not the thoughts behind them. 

“Y-Yeah, almost done…” you say quietly, your breathing only just under control as you keep your head down. He nibbles on your earlobe and you shiver despite the heat. 

_“Hmm,_ nope. _Nope, nope_ … _not_ almost done at all, babygirl.”

You turn to look at him with confusion until you realize he’s hard. You’re still full of him from last night, not having the chance to clean off completely, and your cheeks flush and burn. His hands move from your stomach to your breasts, working them between his hands and teasing your nipples until you start to pant. 

“It’s OK, Daddy’s gonna go _slow…_ that OK with you, babygirl?”

It sounds like a question, but you don’t think it is. There’s no option for you to say no, not without something going irreparably wrong. Biting your lip, you realize it’s better to go along with it, to give in to your body’s desire for him to keep touching you, to have your mind far away as he takes you to the sublime. 

“Now, I _know_ you’ve gotten started _without_ me, but let’s make sure you got all those… _hard to reach_ places,” he says, his voice still low and deep. Your face goes a brighter shade of red and hot enough that you think you might pass out. 

Kissing you, his fingers skirt around the edges of your breasts, his hands working their way along your skin, feeling how soft it is. You shiver again and push into him harder when his attention goes back to your waist and hips until they reach your ass, gently squeezing before going back up your ribs. You’re gasping and you can feel that pulsing restraint in his arms, how hard he’s trying to keep himself from ravishing you. In a moment of indulgence, you let yourself believe that it’s because he cares, that he doesn’t want to make you hurt anymore, that he’ll just keep rewarding you with pleasure, lavishing care on you like he did in his own way the last time he stayed. That’s what you want, his gentleness. 

“P-Please…” 

And you get it when one hand goes down, tracing your hip bone before going between your legs. He pinches a nipple, and you’re moaning already, kissing him harder. When you try to turn around, he keeps you in place, his finger slipping inside your sore cunt. You gasp harder when another digit joins the first, feeling your combined cum slipping out of you and over his fingers as he keeps up a steady, slow pace. 

Sucking on his tongue like you did his cock just a few hours before, your hips start to move, working to get him deeper inside you despite the ache that gives you zings of pain. He smiles against your mouth, the corners of his scars pulling against your skin, the ridges tickling you. His lips pull back and kiss a trail down your neck, and you inhale sharply when the pads of his fingers hit your G-spot, black spots dotting your vision, until he’s knuckle deep. 

“D-Daddy—” 

You want to slap a hand over your mouth, mortified that the word came out voluntarily, but you feel like you’re in heat and the shame slips back under, eclipsed by the feeling of his hand rubbing your clit and his fingers stroking your walls. 

“Yeah, babygirl?” he asks. 

He sounds playful now, teasing. Slowing, he wants to drag it out of you, make you work for it again. He’s gently rubbing a fingertip against your clit as you try to speak, your pussy making lewd sounds as he keeps fingering you. He wants to keep dragging out the degradation, making sure you know who’s bending for who. 

“I—I… I want you… _please,_ I want you, Daddy…” 

You choke on the words, remembering what he did a few hours ago, conflating it with Halloween and the weekend you had together until it’s all becoming one. 

“You want me how, _hmm?”_

_Why does he make me feel like this?_

It’s with a jolt starting from your clit that you realize you _like it_ when he talks to you like this, when he treats you like a plaything. You like it when he uses you.

The realization is a shattering one, and you pant, head going back as you struggle to stand, legs shaking uncontrollably. 

“I… I want you—you inside me, _please—”_

A loud moan cuts you off and he picks up the speed as a reward. 

“You, ah… _want_ Daddy’s cock inside of you, _filling you up?”_ he asks. He knows it’s rhetorical. He just wants the power of making you say it aloud. Your little whimpers grow louder. 

_“Y-Yes—yes, please—”_

He slows his pace and you groan, hoping to God that he isn’t going to stop again, make you go through that agony. _“You_ need to do something for _me_ first, babygirl.”

“W-What, Daddy?” You’re already willing to do whatever he asks, your will supplicated to his. 

“I wanna… feel you _cum_ all over my fingers. Can you do that for your Daddy, doll?”

Nodding, you cling to his wrist, grip tightening with every twist of your nipple and touch across your clit. He’s pulling his fingers out before forcing them back in all the way, feeling how he’s striving to find all your hidden corners, every bundle of nerves that make you jump and writhe. 

_“T-That_ —I like that, Daddy,” you pant when he scissors his fingers, always driving deeper inside like he’s trying to memorize every bump and groove of your walls. 

“Then _that’s_ what you’ll get, babygirl. You ready to cum?” 

It’s driving you truly mad—you can’t even say for sure if Scarecrow’s toxin was the catalyst or if you were like this all along, just waiting for the Joker to come and make you his. 

“Y-Yes, c-can I—can I cum, please? D-Daddy, _please—”_

_I can’t—I can’t take this—_

“You can cum now, babygirl. Cum _nice and hard_ for me.”

The command makes your whole body seize up, legs shaking so badly that he has to hold you up as you let out a broken shriek. Supporting your weight as you gasp without taking in air, every part of you screwing up until you become one pulsing, exposed nerve, the heat of the shower and radiating warmth that’s always coming from his chest nearly making you lose all touch with reality. 

You slump when he takes his fingers out of your pussy, and you think he sticks them in his mouth, you can’t be certain—too insensible to anything other than the steady sensation of the water hitting your skin and the rise and fall of his chest. 

When he turns you back around to face him, you’re in a total fog—somewhere you don’t recognize. You initiate the kiss and he picks you up, your legs loose around him as you lose strength instead of finding it, your dripping slick transferring to his hard stomach as he carries you out of the bathroom, not bothering to turn off the water or towel down. 

You’re both soaked when he drops you on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately, and your legs open without any prompting.

_“Please, please—”_

You don’t have to ask, and he doesn’t seem to have it in him to make you beg again. Taking his cock in hand, you’re so wet that he slips in immediately, filling the gaping absence that you never want to feel again. He grunts and groans, not possessing any of the same control he did last night. It’s like he’s trying to crush you to him, squeezing you hard as he tries to absorb your being into his. 

“J-Joker— _mmm!—”_

You can’t finish, only wanting him to make you feel like before. It’s like you weren’t alive before this, like you haven't felt anything at all. It’s like _he’s_ the one who’s made you realize you’re alive, that your life wasn’t something stuck in limbo, like it was something to go through the motions of. 

“I want you— _I want you so much, Daddy_ … _please…_ I want you, I _need_ you to make me cum… _please, please…”_

You sound so _pathetic_ , so fucking _needy_ and not at all dignified. Your pride is dead, and it looks like the Joker couldn’t be any happier for it. The words just fly out of your mouth, all you know is want and need and desperation to feel him touch you, keep feeling his cock inside of you, tearing you apart, and you’re shocked that you mean it. There’s nothing that exists beyond the now. Whatever he did before is gone from your mind—you never thought you’d need someone like this, but you do. 

You need him. 

When he’s like this, when it’s just him and you, it’s like nothing else ever mattered. 

_“Oh,_ babygirl… you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathes, his brows furrowing together and something deep and primal and feral builds in him. His eyes are marking their ownership on you and you welcome it, wanting his name branded on your soul as you cum again, another shattering orgasm splitting you a little more. 

You don’t answer. You _can’t_ answer. Your hands pull at his hair, bringing him closer as you kiss him like he’s the only source of air you can breathe. All the sounds you can make are murmurs and moans and whimpers and barely suppressed screams and pathetic begging. Your hips work to meet his in time, your body shutting down from a sensory overload that you never want to end. 

Reaching up, you tug his head down and bite his lips, turning it into a kiss that’s all snarls and teeth and, like the fist in your hair, it’s a type of pain that’s delicious. He bites your bottom lip between his teeth, almost breaking the skin and bruising the soft tissue. You’re trying to consume the other, the pain has awakened you to things you didn’t think a person could feel. You bury your face in the crook of his neck and scream so loud it tears at your throat as you cum again, holding him with every bit of strength you have, convulsing around him as you try to stay whole. 

Tears stream down your face as he forces your head back and licks along your cheek. The strength is leaving you but he keeps going, his hips taking the lead and thrusting into you hard. 

“Want Daddy to cum in you? _Hmm?”_

You’re nodding furiously, incapable of getting your mouth to do anything beyond pant and yelp out every time his cock is pushed further into you than you thought it could go, like it’s hitting the middle of your being. 

_“Y-Yes—please, please—”_

Unable to finish the sentence—he forces the air out of you when his arms wrap around you in a vise, his hand gripping your hair again at the base of your skull. You scream and writhe, but you don’t want him to stop. You didn’t think it was possible, but the building tension feels stronger than last time. 

_How can it be better, how can I cum again harder than before?_

You want him to rip out your hair and crush your throat. The pain of it is the only way you think you can cope. There’s nothing else, just his cock in you forcing this feeling out.

_“Say, it—tell me you want me to cum in you.”_

You’re crying because of how good it feels, how you don’t want it to ever end. You’re crying because it’s humiliating, but you want this more than anything in your life and you don’t know why. 

_“Please—_ I-I want it,” you pant out, holding him harder. 

“Say. It. _Now.”_

He pulls your hair harder, baring your throat to him and biting hard as you scream. 

“I—I want—I want you to cum in me… Please, D-Daddy, _please—please cum inside me—”_

Your cries turn into sobs of desperate release. You’re building up to an avalanche, and he’s holding you so hard you can’t breathe. But your hips move faster, arms finding enough strength to cling to him, your nails digging into his back as hard as you can. Your muscles burn, your pussy screams at you to make this stop; you can’t keep this up but you don’t ever want to stop.

“Who do you belong to, babygirl? _Hmm?_ Who does _this_ belong to?” he asks as he drives into you so hard that you see stars. 

“I—I belong to you—it— _it all belongs to you—”_

“Who owns you? Tell me— _scream it for me_ —”

It’s a harsh commanding voice, the type he uses in his videos that you’ve seen on the news that signals how he’s standing on the knife’s edge between control and insanity. There’s no room for defiance. There’s no hesitation in your answer, like his command has gone straight to your brain and bypassed your senses. You'll say anything to him right now. And he knows it.

 _“You do—_ you own me, Daddy—I _belong to you,_ I am—I’m your babygirl— _Please, please!”_

He silences you with a kiss and the burning heat of it warms you to the core of your chest. You press against him and keep whimpering, hoping all of this is enough, that he’ll keep giving you what you need—what your soul is singing for. He breaks away and you yelp out another cry of sublime agony, driving him closer to cumming again, filling you up with him, marking you as his. 

But there are several things you failed to notice. 

Like how he plugged in your straightening iron on the floor with the heat cranked to the highest setting. 

Like how he took one of your metal hangers and twisted it into a familiar shape. 

The shape of his initial.

And how he has the hair straightener clamped around it, heating the metal until it's a dull red. 

Just when you think your body’s going to give out completely, your cunt convulses around him. A pulse that shocks your entire body freezes you in place as everything seizes in a spasm that drives everything from your mind—taking you to a place where the only thing that exists is him holding you, his cock inside of you, the feeling of your clit on fire, every inch of you in the throes of some sublime state of existence that’s beyond description. 

_“Don’t ever forget it, babygirl,”_ he snarls, all semblance of care and gentleness completely gone as he reaches down and grabs the hanger, pressing it against you—right over your heart. 

His hand is over your mouth by the time you start screaming, shrieking like you’re about to die, teeth biting into him until you taste his blood. He growls and shouts, but keeps driving into you, making your orgasm wrack through your body until you think you’re going to actually be split apart, that this excruciating pain will be your life forever. 

Through the violent and searing anguish, you realize you just wished for these things—to be bound to him, for him to mark you forever. 

It makes everything so much worse. 

Somehow, you’re still cumming—where it was like a spike of pleasure being driven in and pulled out quickly before, this is like a hot poker’s been shoved inside of you and left to cool—the pleasure peaking and radiating through your body, every nerve ending on fire as he consumes you. 

For a few seconds, you drop out of time. The feeling of his cock spasming inside of you, coating your walls with his spunk, bringing you back and intensifying your pleasure and expand your suffering—letting you ride another wave made of magma.

He’s not shouting anymore, but he’s holding you even tighter, gripping you until you think you’re going to burst. You’re screaming as you’re sobbing, the release and torment and pain and wave of euphoria is too much and your entire vision goes black as you hold onto him. His chest is stuttering as he tries to bring air into his own lungs, his cock still going, still unloading inside of you and pushing up towards your cervix, driving into you one more time as he spends himself. Your body gives out and goes limp when he throws the rapidly cooling hanger on the floor, just barely supporting himself above you.

“Oh, my sweet, _sweet_ little thing,” he pants, his sweat dripping down your body and mixing with your own. You’re not even sure if he’s actually speaking or if it's just happening in your head. “I’m, ah… _never_ letting you go. _Not ever.”_

The meaning of it doesn’t hit home, doesn’t make sense. How he can do all of this to you and caress your face, stroke your hair almost lovingly. And maybe he does. Maybe this is his idea of love. 

“This is… this is just a start. You’ll see, babygirl. I’ll _make_ you see.”

Maybe it’s the only kind you’re capable of receiving. The only kind you can give in return.

And maybe there's no escaping him at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This definitely isn't the end! More will definitely be coming for the series, so keep an eye out! If you wanna send in requests for things you'd like to see happen or kinks you want included, send me an ask or message on [tumblr](https://ladyoftheseastuff.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment here! All feedback is greatly appreciated 💖


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